The Force is Everywhere working title
by Luke1
Summary: The longawaited sequel to The Shadows Suit Me. 10 years have passed, and though Luke's life has improved, he is still not at peace. His son Anakin may force him to come to tearms with his life as a Jedi.


I wasn't sure I wanted to post this yet, but I've been working on it a lot lately, and I think it might be time to start getting it out there. This is just the first eight pages, but hopefully those of you who read The Shadows Suit Me in November 2004 to June 2005 will like this. I know there were a lot of uneasy feelings about the end of the first one. That was intentional. You're not supposed to feel like everything was going to be okay, but you were supposed to be satisfied that Luke was ready to come home, and ready to change. That was half of his journey. This book is going to be the other half, ten years later. I'll let the rest speak for itself. Thanks for reading, as always. --The Author

* * *

I wake up in Anakin's bed. I often do–I don't like to sleep alone anymore, and he never has, ever since he was little. There's also the rare occasion that I'll crawl into bed with Leia in the middle of the night, or even Han. Anakin comes and finds me, too, sometimes, when he's not over at Tamin's. We all stay on opposite sides of the bed, but just to hear someone else's breathing is comforting. 

Anakin's nearly eighteen, now. I shake my head, watching him sleep. Eighteen. Which of course makes me forty. It seems every year flies by faster, and I'm watching my son become more and more beautiful with each passing day and turning from a boy into a man before my very eyes. Despite his mother's sighs and protests, he refuses to keep his hair trimmed to a reasonable length and now his bangs fall across his closed eyes. His hair is still pale, never having darkened as most blonds' hair does during adolescence, paler than mine. His skin is fair like his mother's, and though he does otherwise look a lot like me, it is obvious that his complexion has never been brutalized by the Tatooian suns. Though he may not be technically of royal blood, Leia's regal bearing is apparent in him even when he sleeps, and much more so when he's awake. Ben says that every girl, and some of the boys, at the University are in love with Anakin. I can believe it. But I doubt he even notices–after all, he only has eyes for Tamin Antilles.

I could watch him forever–he's so beautiful. It seems to me at times that Anakin is the only thing I ever did right. Better than right. He's incredibly smart–he's been studying history and literature at Courscant University since he was sixteen. I'm not sure where he got those interests, but he thrives on them. He's also an amazing poet, and a good friend, to me and to everyone who knows him.

Ben's twenty-one and in the starfleet, so we hardly see him. But Anakin's kept away from that. He never even learned how to fly. Good boy.

Suddenly, his eyes open, eyes bluer than the sky over Tatooine. He takes in a deep breath and stretches, not seeming to notice or care that I'm gazing at him. "Mom and Mylia are home," he announces. It's not too terribly strange that he would think so, since they are due back this morning, but something inside me shivers anyway. He's doing this more and more–sensing things happening far away, knowing little things about the future, and inadvertently knocking cups off the table with his mind. Why did you have to be so powerful, Anakin?

"How do you know?" I ask, though I know. I want to pretend that I don't.

He shrugs and shakes his head, and then smiles. "I don't know–I just know things," he replies happily, brushing it off. It's a good thing he's so happy all the time–otherwise, I'd be worried about these powers he doesn't know he has.

He gets up and changes from sleep pants into grey cargos–he may not be in the military, but he comes from a military family, and it's never really occurred to him to follow the fashions at the University instead–not seeming to mind that I'm in the room. We're close. He never went through an angst-filled teenage rebel phase, maybe partly because I always treated him like a human being, and let him do what ever he wanted within reason. Since he started going to University, I've treated him like an adult, because he is. He leaves on the white undershirt he slept in and takes a quick look in the mirror to shake out his hair, which curls subtly away from his face and neck at the ends, the way mine used to. I smile and shake my head. Everyone says he's my spitting image, and I can definitely see where they're coming from–but I was never that cute.

He grabs the pants' matching jacket from a peg by the door and regards me with a smile. "Come on, Dad. Let's go meet them."

I nod, and watch him exit the room excitedly. He's everything I could want my son to be.

If only he wasn't so powerful.

* * *

Leia is still the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life. 

The New Republic has become a true Republic at last, which means that Leia's old office of president has been disbanded. She served as chancellor during the first term of the senate, and graciously declined when nominated for a second. She works as an ambassador now, when she is needed, and represents Courscant in the galactic senate. When she goes on missions, she brings her eleven-year-old daughter in tow, a bossy and beautiful little girl who might have loved to be a princess like her mother. Mylia looks as much like Leia as Anakin looks like me. Leia won't let her cut her hair short–which for Leia means anything shorter than collarbone length–until she's older, so her waist-length chestnut hair falls in two thick braids with ribbons at the bottoms. She and Leia hold hands as they exit the shuttle, surrounded by fellow dignitaries and bodyguards, smiling at Anakin and me when they see us.

"I told you," whispers Anakin to me. I roll my eyes, but smile.

Suddenly, Mylia's face lights up as she exclaims, "Dad!" and rushes off in another direction. I turn to see Han–he must have left the apartment soon after we did–not too far off as he picks up his daughter and holds her tight, kissing the top of her head. I have never seen anyone so obviously in love with anyone as Han is with Mylia. Since the day she was born, and he told me in a awe-filled voice that he'd become a father, his life has been about her. Other things, his position training New Republic pilots, his own personal pride and arrogance, and his beloved ship, _the Millennium Falcon_, never have come in the way of his daughter, not even for an instant. Mylia's gone a lot with Leia, but when she's here, she's all he thinks about.

In fact, he probably shouldn't spoil her so much.

Leia smiles and watches the two of them. She and Han still don't get along but they've never been on bad terms, and she's told me that she's grateful her daughter has such a caring father–something I took as a personal attack at the time. After all, she said it soon after I moved in with her, which was only a few months after I met my seven-year-old Anakin for the first time. But I don't think that's how she meant it.

When Leia's near enough I gather her into my arms. I hate being away from her–she's all I have in way of a partner, all I ever will have. Through the years I've resigned myself to it. At first, after the initial awkwardness, I loved to just be near her at all, and it was like being married again without the physical component. After that wore off, I thought it was romantic, for my life to be dedicated to a woman I couldn't have. After that, it became clear to me that our relationship was based on the past and nothing more, and I considered the idea of looking for someone, a real someone. But how am I to do that? How could I ever explain the situation to an outsider, and if I didn't, how could I last in a relationship that was built on secrets? No. It's not for me. Besides, I can't have children anymore and I've got three by all practical purposes anyway. And I have Leia. And I have Han. And that's all I need.

Still, it seems the tighter I hold onto Leia, the more she pulls back. I scare her. I know I do. Somewhere over the years she managed to get over me, but I don't know if I've gotten over her. It might have been how much I'd changed. Maybe I'm just not he boy she fell for anymore. I don't know. This wasn't how it was supposed to work. We were supposed to come to terms with the past and eventually build a relationship on our blood ties and friendship–to be the siblings we were meant to be. But Leia's too busy to build, and I'm too afraid to scare her by getting too close, so...this is all we have.

I try to make the best of it. I know she cares about me–it's unmistakable. But what that means or whether it matters is something I'm as unsure of as I was the day I came back.

"I missed you," I say softly. As soon as I say it I know I shouldn't have.

She gives me a soft smile. That's all. Then she pulls away and hugs our grown son. He's a lot taller than she is–he's a few centimeters taller than I am, too, but he's stopped growing, we think.

With Mylia on his back, Han joins us, and together the five of us walk back to our apartment. I guess it's a little weird, for the five of us to be living in one suite, but it's what we know, what makes us feel safe, and the only family we have. Han didn't live with us for years after his and Leia's divorce, but after awhile we knew that for the kids' sake, as well as mine, I'll admit, it would make sense if we just got a bigger place so he could have his own room. Han and I have almost become fathers to all three of the children, and I find myself describing Mylia as my daughter as often as Han calls the boys his sons. Mylia calls me Luke and the boys have always called Han by his first name as well, but there's no mistaking the tone behind the names, the same tone as when the boys call me Dad, and when Mylia calls Han Dad.

Leia's our rock. She holds this family together. Though more and more, I find myself thinking that it's the idea of Leia that holds us together, not her. Leia's always gone, or frantically busy. That's nothing new, but I can't even remember the last time I had a conversation with her. Back at the apartment, Anakin heads off to take a shower before class and Han and Mylia head for the garden to catch up. That leaves me and Leia standing in the greatroom, trying not to make eye contact.

After a very uncomfortable pause, I ask, "How'd it go?"

"The negotiations?"

"Yeah."

She shrugs. "I think they may be on our side, but we'll have to see if they're willing to give results."

I nod. I have no idea what she's talking about. It's not as if she even lets me know where she's going half the time, and even when I do know where she's gone I don't know why she's there. We don't talk. But somehow I think she expects me to follow the politics of what she's doing without her saying a word.

"How have things been around here?"

I shrug back. "Same. Anakin studies all the time, Han teaches..." I smile. "I sit around."

She returns my smile wholeheartedly, a rare gift. "You should see if Wedge can get you a job like Han's–it would keep you busy."

I shake my head. "I'm not qualified. I haven't flown in eighteen years."

Leia leans in closer to me, a mischievous smile on her face. "Between you and me, you were _always_ a better pilot than Han. And you can get back into it."

"I'd rather not," I say softly. The way she's looking at me...when she says things like that...I think that's why I stay with her. My life will be going along, all very monotonous and no hope for having the kind of connection with her that I used to have ever again, and then for a second it's back. And for a second, I don't care if we're siblings or lovers or just friends–anyway I can get her, I need her. I need that connection. But I never say so. And it's here, and gone just as quickly, and then we're strangers again. But every time we connect, for just one moment, it gives me hope that things will not always be this way. That we will reconnect. Eventually.

"That's up to you," she says, drawing her eyes away. She picks up her bag from the front hall without thanking me for carrying it and heads to her room to unpack.

I watch her go, and I almost let her, but I_ have_ been meaning to talk to her about something, and I'd like her attention for more than just the few seconds I've had it so far. "Leia?"

She turns, her taffeta gown rustling.

"I need to talk to you..." I step closer so I can speak more softly. "About Anakin."

She knots her brows together. "What about Anakin?"

His power. It's been growing and it's been bothering me. I never told Leia what I felt in him all those years ago, the blinding light of his aura. I wanted to forget about it. But he keeps doing things, and I'm getting scared. It's something we'll have to address in one way or another eventually, and he's her son, too. We really should talk about it. I guess this is how Uncle Owen felt when I would get "feelings"–but hopefully I can handle the situation better than he did. "Leia...he, um..."

"Is he all right?"

"Yeah."

She looks at the wall chrono. "Then can this wait? I have a meeting in twenty minutes."

She always has a meeting in twenty minutes. "Yeah," I say in resignation, and storm off.

I end up in my room and close the door. It's warm and dark in my room, not shrouded in darkness dark, but calm, soothing dark. At least until I open the velvet curtains that cover the north-facing glass wall with the sliding door that leads to my terrace. Then light floods in, bright spring light, just-stopped-raining light, light from a warm sun while the air is still cool. I slide open the door and lean against the railing of the terrace. I come here to think. And smoke cig-sticks because Leia won't let me smoke in the garden. I light one just as a knock sounds at my door. That's Han's knock because it's loud and quick. "Come in, Han," I call.

Han's fifty. His hair's grey and he's put on weight but I still think he's handsome. The wool jacket he's wearing is new but looks something like the one he used to wear in the old days before I left–I think that's why he bought it. He always wears Corellian bloodstripe pants, and always has, and I think I can count on one hand all the times I've seen him in pants without bloodstripes. "That better not be hard spice," he says, maybe joking by the glint in his eye, but I'm not sure.

"You know I'm clean, Han," I say softly. I spent five months in rehab and had group counseling for spice for two years after that. There is no way I'm going through that again, so I've stayed off of spice, and alcohol, too, for that matter, just to be safe. I still want it sometimes, but I can fight it.

"Well, those things'll kill you, too, only slower. So I think you're gonna have to let me have one–you know, give you an extra five minutes of your life."

I smile. That's the thing about Han. It always has been. He makes me feel warm through and through, even when he's not trying to. When I'm in the worst of moods he can always coax a smile out of me. And all it takes is his being there, his casual manor and his offhand sense of humor, his Corellian accent and his voice when it gets soft. His hazel eyes.

I find myself staring too deeply into his eyes so I look away. We stand and smoke in silence for a moment, until Han asks, "So what gives? You upset about something?"

"You can always tell."

"I know you too well. Is her Highness up to old tricks again?"

I nod. "Like when I first met her. Won't give me the time of day. Except there's no traumatic situation to send her looking for comfort this time."

Han furrows his brow. "You think the only reason Leia fell in love with you is 'cause she was pregnant?" he says as if it's ridiculous.

I shrug. "We're not compatible, Han. I can see that, now. We try to be friends, but–"

"No, _you_ try to be friends. She's always running around so frantic that she doesn't even know which way's up. She's not trying at all, she's..." He sounds angry, and I know he's been getting the same treatment from her. We all have, except Mylia. But Han sees other women, and Anakin has school and a girlfriend, and Ben's not around enough to feel it, but for my part, my family is all I have. And Leia and I are supposed to be spending our lives together.

I shake my head. "Maybe we weren't supposed to try to make it work after I came back."

He shrugs. "Then what were you s'posed to do?"

"I don't know. She's never felt like a sister to me. I'd like her to. I think I'd like to have a sister, it's just..."

We let the silence hang in the air. It isn't just anything. It's a lot of things. A lot of things I could never put into words. What I'm sure of, though, is that the harder I try to be a brother to her, the more she avoids me.

"What does your shrink say about it?"

My therapist is useless. All she was good for was helping me get past my depression, which I think mostly had to do with learning to appreciate my boys and not dwell on what could have been. She gave me pills for when I have anxiety attacks, like I used to when I worried about things and wasn't high—I try not to take them too often, but I do every once in a while. With Leia, she has never had any answers, just a lot of questions. It does help to have someone to talk to who's not involved, though. The biggest help therapy has been to me is to just hear myself talk and put my fears into words. It's easier to see why something scares me when I can talk about it. She doesn't even have to talk back. "Nothing. She says that I've been projecting my own fears of rejection onto this situation, when all it really is, is that Leia's too busy to make time for me. She says Leia needs therapy to learn when to say no at work and decide what's really important."

Han smiles. "That's what I've been telling Leia for _years_."

I nod. "Yeah. But it doesn't help me."

"Yeah, I know," he says softly.

I've been trying to be honest since I came back, really honest, to say things that I might even be too scared to say. I don't want to ever regret not having told someone how I really feel. "But _you_ help me," I say lowly, blushing a little.

He smiles crookedly. "Well...I figure someone's gotta be looking out for you, right?"

I nod. "And you always have. Whether I deserve it or not."

"You do."

I shake my head, but bask in the compliment. It means a lot coming from him.

"Can I ask you something?"

I nod.

"When did you first cut your hair off? Was it after you left, or...?"

I shake my head, aware for the first time in a long time that no hair shakes with it. I'm so used to having a nearly shorn head now that I don't think about it. "It was...before I left. Right before."

"Why'd you do it?"

I shrug, because though I know exactly why, I could never put it into words. "It wasn't right anymore. When I was a kid I had kind of long hair, but that was a different me." He's not buying it, I can tell by his frown. He knows there's more. "I think...it was because of what happened. I didn't think it fit anymore."

"Was it some kinda penance or something?"

I'd never thought of it like that. "Was I punishing myself, you mean?"

"Well, you got this complex about all these bad things you've supposedly done–"

"I _have_ done bad things–"

"Not as many as you think." He regards me for a moment quietly, and then continues. "I guess I'm just wondering why you haven't let it grow back."

"Because...because I still need it to be like this."

"Because you're still angry at yourself."

Reluctantly, I nod.

"You gotta get over this guilt thing." He rises from leaning against the railing and crosses the terrace to stand close to me. He looks down into my eyes and asks, lowly, "What's it gonna take, kid?"

I'm not a kid. I'm far from it. But I love it when he calls me that. It makes me feel young and naive, and sometimes that's what I need. What's it going to take? Him. Doing what he does for me. I lean my head on his chest and he holds me for a minute–he understands. Pulling way, he gives me one more fond look before putting his stick out in the ashtray and turning to go.

Before he can open my door, because once he does it won't be our little world anymore, I call his name and he turns back. Shyly, I ask, "Would you like it...if I let it grow?"

He smiles brightly, but all he says is, "When you're ready, yeah." And then he goes.

I finish my stick and come back inside, laying on my bed and wondering what the hell is going on. My feelings about Han have been confused for years, but a happy kind of confused. All I know for sure right now, though, is that I'm never using my clippers again.


End file.
